


Spare Change

by illegible



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Harvey Dent is not okay, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two-Face is no more. Harvey Dent finds himself less than he once was and faces the challenges of reformation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He sits in his new apartment, which is dingier than the house he'd lived in with Gilda but nicer than the theaters and basements he's occupied in recent years. It's small, undecorated, asymmetrical. There are water stains on the ceiling but no roaches, the couch is tattered, the carpet faded brown and the walls off-white. Still. It's home and it's legitimate.

He keeps the blinds shut.

Part of him misses the coin. It was, among other things, a good escape for moments like this when he feels restless. He isn't used to doing nothing with his hands.

The coin is at the bottom of the river.

Harvey didn't leave for a long time after it sank. Part of him (not quite half) fantasized about leaping in after it, letting himself go. Eventually he just sat on the docks, breathing in pollution and telling himself he could smell the ocean.

Pamela visited. She was unusually quiet, and let him make her a cup of coffee despite drinking none of it. She didn't try to persuade him to come back, or mention her plants, or bring up any of the occasions they'd spent together. For better or worse.

"What are you doing with yourself, Harv?" she'd asked, and he looked her in the eye for as long as he could before turning away without an answer.

He still hasn't let them touch his face.

Pamela kissed him on his good cheek when she left, and there was nothing more to it than that. She hasn't called since.

Gordon wants him to talk to kids about gangs and staying out of them. Be one of those checkered-past speakers explaining the evils of crime while trying to persuade his audience that this is more important than some joke or snatch of gossip. It's probably the only speaking platform left that might listen to him.

Once upon a time the public elected him DA in a landslide. Look at him now.

There's a knock at the door.

"Harvey!" Says Bruce Wayne when he answers, unphased. "How's a busy guy like you holding together these days?"

The man is an airhead. But he's an airhead who bothered to stop by, and he's an airhead whose money lets him afford a roof over his head and dinner at night. His shoulders slump and he feels himself smile, weakly.

"It's good to see you," he says, and Wayne claps a hand on his shoulder. Smiles back.

It's been a long time.

Harvey lets him in.


	2. Chapter 2

Harvey hasn't been to Bruce's office before. The windows span from floor to ceiling, and he has a sense of almost-vertigo seeing all the other skyscrapers stretch out beneath them. The room has a grayish cast to it, crisp and neat and utterly impersonal. Not very much like the clutter of his DA office. Back in the day.

Bruce is finishing up behind his desk, chatting over legal intricacies and company policies as a favor between friends. It's not really Harvey's specialty anymore, but it's a nice exercise. A nice gesture.

Tucking the last file into his drawer (which is meticulously organized, like everything else in this tower), Bruce leans back in his chair and peers up at him.

"Do you miss it?"

Harvey isn't sure what to say to that, flounders, looks down at the streets and the cars and the people drifting to and fro like specks of dust. Then he looks back over his shoulder again and decides (which still takes getting used to—not too long ago he would have flipped for his response) that there's nothing wrong with answering a question with a question. "Miss what?"

Bruce smiles a little too easily, as if this scarred, mismatched figure standing in front of him has never been a criminal, has never set foot in an asylum or raved about chance and fate and the inherent duality of everything on national television. As if he's never threatened or stolen or killed because a goddamn scrap of metal said so. "Any of it."

He examines his own reflection in the glass. The normal side of him, the right side, the Harvey side has become lined over the years. Tired, hollow, no longer Apollo like they used to call him. He'll never be Gotham's white knight again, and hasn't been for a long time. "Every day," he says, and he thinks of all the people he's never said goodbye to over the years, the friends and madmen he'll probably never see again. He keeps throwing people away as if they were only things.

He clasps his hands behind his back, tightly.

"Do you think it's possible to start over, Bruce?"

There's a long silence behind him, and he wonders if perhaps he's pushing it. Wayne never has been one for serious topics.

"Not really," Bruce answers after a while, and the breath leaves Harvey so quietly he almost doesn't feel it. "But that's fine. You can always use what's left to make some good. Right?"

Something twists inside him, and abruptly he wishes he could be alone, could throw all his choices away and be forgotten as just one more ugly piece of history. It shouldn't be so bad. It shouldn't _scare_ him this much.

"You'll be okay." For the first time Bruce seems to be speaking carefully, his words quieter. Maybe even thoughtful. "You still have something very important."

"And what's that?"

Wayne gets up, wanders over to stand beside him. After a moment, Harvey turns.

He's smiling.

"A friend with one hell of a yacht. How'd you feel about joining me and a few friends for a cruise at the end of the week?"

Harvey laughs, and something inside him begins to loosen. "I don't know. Do you think it's a good idea?"

"Sure I do. What could happen?"

He imagines the uneasy stares, the careful conversations, the unspoken accusations.

Bruce claps him on the back.

"Stop worrying so much. You'll have a great time. Trust me."

And Harvey says yes.


	3. Chapter 3

She comes without warning, waits on the threshold and doesn't waver. Her sculptor's hands are tight—one grasping the strap of her purse, the other clenched at her side. There is something hard in her expression now, unflinching. Hidden. Determined. It would have been easier if they were strangers.

Harvey met Gilda in college. She'd been quiet then too, a little hesitant around new people. But he loved her work, and through that they slowly got around to other conversations. He learned that Gilda had been raised a good girl. She took great relish in driving ten miles over the speed limit, eating candy before dinner, and inventing new ways to use swear words. She liked opera and metal and something in between, but country eluded her. She could talk mythology for hours. "Apollo" slipped off her tongue almost by accident, a nickname she wasn't sure she could give, and he'd wanted to kiss her then. Ultimately she beat him to it, standing two steps above him on the way to her dorm so he didn't have to bend over.

She's wearing an overlarge sweater now, brown hair tied back, wedged boots making their height difference slightly less conspicuous. He's still in pajama pants and a clashing t-shirt, the hair he has left sticking up at odd angles. Sometimes this happens, and he doesn't get out of bed until well past noon. Sometimes the world doesn't need him before then.

Harvey wonders if he should say something, do anything. Gilda is looking at him, seeing all of him and it's clear she has expectations but language has turned traitor to lodge halfway down his throat. His lips part, he thinks he'll say her name or "I'm sorry" or even "hi" but no. Harvey Dent can't manage a word, much less a speech.

"Aren't you going to let me in?" she asks quietly, and he's retreating almost instinctively as she moves forward. They haven't been this close in years.

She smells like clay and and smoke and a salty-sweet perfume he can't identify.

Gilda shuts the door for him.


	4. Chapter 4

She enters his living room, wanders to the coffee table and stops there. On either side are a couch and chair respectively. The chair doesn’t quite align. Gilda keeps her knees stiff and her back straight, glances briefly past the kitchenette (he regrets not cleaning it) before facing him again. Her mouth forms a tight, thin line. The lipstick she used to love is absent.

"What are you doing, Harvey?" she asks. Her eyes are very dark. Harvey freezes where he stands.

"What do you mean?"

Gilda remains where she is, won’t release him from her scrutiny. He feels like a particularly unpleasant insect trapped under a microscope.

"How long is this going to last?" At once he becomes extremely aware of his scars—the permanent grimace, skin raw and red and hopelessly warped. It is no longer an injury, it’s a decision and they both know it.

He breathes, in and out.

"I don’t know," he says at last. He studies his feet. God, he should at least be wearing _shoes_ for this. “I think… I hope this is it.”

Her mouth twists, presses closer, forces itself down. She turns away. Her shoulders drop. “Of course,” she says, and it’s strained. “You don’t know.”

"Gilda…"

"After everything, everything you’ve done, you can’t even…" She exhales, shuddering, returns to him. He steps back. Her expression is cold, furious. "How _dare_ you.”

"I’m sorry," he says, and it sounds absolutely pathetic even to himself.

"You are a _murderer_ , Harvey Dent. I waited for you. I watched you slaughter countless people and for god knows what reason I never brought myself to…to…” She bites her lip, hard, then snaps “You’re _disgusting_.”

He can’t answer. Can’t look at her.

"For the longest time, I… I kept telling myself you were just sick. I visited you."

"I remember," he whispers.

Gilda grits her teeth, snarls “I should _slap_ you.” And he waits. “I should—I should throw things at you, I should break things, I should…” Her voice hitches. She covers her mouth.

They remain there for several moments. Gilda’s breathing is sharp, uneven, muffled. Her face is probably slick by now. He doesn’t lift his head.

"You can’t even close the door," she says. It’s impossible to miss the tremor. "You can’t even close the goddamn door."

"I don’t want to make promises," he says softly.

"You _owe_ me a promise.”

The breath leaves him. There is a long pause before he can respond. “I’m so sorry.”

Neither of them talk for some time.

"I don’t know why I bothered coming here," she says at last. "I don’t know what I expected."

Harvey has nothing to say.

"Don’t call me," she tells him. "Don’t come near me unless you’re ready to make some kind of commitment. Understand?"

"I understand," says Harvey quietly.

She lets herself out.


	5. Chapter 5

Harvey stands on deck at the rear of the boat (yacht, he corrects himself—when it’s this big and expensive it’s a yacht), watching waves ripple in its wake. Snatches of conversation drift his way from inside, but it’s not so intrusive like this. He feels better for the air, for the river’s empty darkness.

Bruce tried. He appreciates the effort, spent his first hour or so in the billionaire’s shadow. Laughing at all the right jokes. Exchanging small-talk like he had any use for it. Ignoring people who focused on his left side. A few asked what it was like, being a costume. Most kept their distance.

It could have been so much worse. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they hadn’t let him on board at all, with his body count. Bruce or no Bruce.

His elbows are folded over the rail. His suit matches tonight, dark gray rather than black or white. It’s not as formal as it should be, but it’s what he has.

"Harvey."

He turns. Gordon is walking his way. No wife with him, not anymore. They used to come over for dinner together. And of course that was besides rooftop meetings.

"Hello, Commissioner," he says, and thinks of all the times he’s been taken in wearing handcuffs, all the times Jim couldn’t look at him. He’s not sure if the man felt guilty or disappointed. It hadn’t made much difference at the time.

Now, Gordon takes the space next to him, glancing at the ruined half just for a moment before turning his attention to the city lights. “It’s been a while.”

"Yeah," says Harvey, ducking his head, "sorry."

Gordon doesn’t answer, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. Lights up.

"I’m honestly surprised you showed," he says slowly, thoughtfully.

Harvey waits, half-expecting him to continue. When he doesn’t, he says, “I was invited. Figured it was worth a shot.”

Gordon exhales, smoke curling into the night. “Maybe.” Eventually he turns, faces him. “I actually came out to make you an offer.”

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Gordon. A pause. Then, "It took a little negotiation, but there is room for you with the GCPD if you want to act as a consultant."

Harvey stills. “What?”

The commissioner doesn’t blink. At the edge of his lips, the cigarette glows. “You heard me.”

Water laps against the side of the yacht. 'A little negotiation' must be an understatement, with how much trouble he's given the GCPD over the years. It's one hell of a favor. Straightening, Harvey asks “What kind of consultant do you have in mind?”

Gordon studies him, his expression unreadable. “We could use someone who knows the gallery from the inside. You’re our guy.”

He thinks of masks and makeup and the people beneath them. He thinks of Pamela who said goodbye and Eddie who didn’t. They’d been friends.

Then he thinks of Gilda. He thinks everyone he’s held at the end of a gun.

His hand is in his pocket. There’s nothing to hold on to.

Jim waits.

"Alright," says Harvey at last, "alright."


	6. Chapter 6

He hears the coin before he sees it, the faint ting as it flicks off skin to fly through the air. Harvey opens his eyes. The space is impossibly vast, he cannot see the edges of it—only a sharp division between light and dark. Before him stands the seat of Duality, one side gilded inscriptions of sun, arrows, signs of art and logic. The other half, the shadowed half, is wood and nail and thorn, roughly hewn, winding vines and beasts carved into its surface. Apollo. Dionysus. Reason and madness manifest.

Lying across the throne he finds himself. No. Two-Face, silver dollar spinning over his knuckles, sprawls sideways with his legs across one arm and his back against the other. He’s humming something vaguely patriotic under his breath.

"Oh god," whispers Harvey, and in a spasm Two-Face smiles.

"Not god," and now Two-Face looks to acknowledge himself, "chance. It was inevitable that this would happen sooner or later. Welcome back."

Harvey turns away only to find the same scene, same visual split with a costumed _freak_ still before him. He retreats several steps. “This isn’t real,” he hears himself say, “this isn’t—”

"—what you want." Two-Face shifts, sits forward. The coin makes an arc through the air, is caught between his thumb and forefinger. The rogue sneers. "Since when has that made any difference?"

"My choices matter," he says while Two-Face rolls his eyes, "My actions define me. I’m in control."

"You gave up control a long time ago, Harv." He finds himself fixated on the grin spreading unevenly across his double’s face. "You’re a slave to fortune, blind and inconsistent."

"Not now."

"Always," says Two-Face, rising, "always." The figure advances, mismatched, closing space between them. "You’re still living on a coin flip, telling yourself you’re accomplishing something _good_. But we both know how easily that could change.”

"That’s not true," says Harvey, glancing aside then stumbling as Two-Face latches onto his shoulders with both hands.

"Do you really think so?" He can smell flesh burning, hear it burst and hiss in his mind. "Or have you forgotten exactly how much of your life now is because you got _lucky?_ ” Two-Face’s grip is like a vice, painfully tight. Harvey falters, tries to pull away to no avail. “Jim. Bruce. Gilda. All people you care about, isn’t that right?”

"Stop," he gasps, "I wouldn’t—"

"You _would_ Harvey. You did. It’s what makes you such a damn good instrument. You _had_ to test yourself, prove that you’re not a real person.” He can feel fingers grinding against bone. His knees bend. Harvey kneels, shuddering, gazing up into the destruction of his own visage. Two-Face meets his eyes, blue on blue. “People are weak. People are ruled by what they want and don’t want. You’re capable of anything if the wind blows just right. You can’t even stop yourself.”

"I wouldn’t," he repeats, numbly.

"Did you," demands Two-Face, forcing him down further, "or did you not flip for their lives, Harvey Dent?"

"We…We aren’t the same people anymore."

"Of COURSE we’re the same people!" Another shove and he’s on the ground, Two-Face sitting on his chest, teeth bared, coin clenched tight between them. "Do you really think you can close your eyes and pretend you aren’t capable of these things? They’re alive," and there is something hideous in his expression, something certain, "because _they_ were lucky. No other reason.”

"The coin is _gone!_ Even if I wanted to listen to it—I can’t!”

"If you’re so sure," says Two-Face, "then how about you _improvise?_ ”

And with one motion the silver dollar is under his tongue, forced back so hard he feels himself gag and begin to choke before his eyes open.

Harvey is in bed, breathless, slick with sweat, moonlight cast across his sheets. He coughs briefly, pulling himself into a sitting position. For some time he remains there. Silent. Eventually he stands, stumbles, makes his way to the dresser holding his wallet. His hands won’t stop trembling.

Harvey takes out a quarter.

Air sticks in his throat. He does not blink, wavering on the threshold between freedom and captivity. It isn’t complicated. Either he can resist a command or he can’t. Harvey remembers Gilda crying in his living room. He imagines her blood and brains splattered against a wall, body spread lifeless, hands limp and empty and cold.

Harvey hurls all of his spare change out the window, sinks to the floor, and sobs.

He can't.


	7. Chapter 7

They don’t want him here.

The Gotham City Police Department is brightly lit, a flurry of activity. Files, computers, voices on every side. Harvey follows Gordon in. Conversations pause as he walks past. Whenever he glances up he finds someone looking at him, someone turning away.

As DA, opinions had been polarized. Harvey Dent might have been an honest attorney doing his best or he might have been a liar, a crook, a political scumbag who’d turn traitor at a moment’s notice. As Two-Face things were so much more simple.

In his mind guns go off again, again. He slits a thousand throats beneath his fingers, blood seeping with flesh rippling upward. Bomb counters wind down, explosions flare, people shriek and beg and double-headed liberty falls into his grasp. He laughs in the light of sirens and opens fire bringing death to friends and enemies and strangers and officers and nobody at all. Harvey Two-Faced Harvey turncoat Harvey the avatar of chance and life and death and everything Harvey—

"Harvey."

The commissioner is facing him, gripping his shoulders, expression serious or concerned or wary. The room is silent.

Shadows stretch, flicker, retract. Harvey tries to breathe and the world tilts.

'I need…I need to sit,” he manages. There is a hand at his hip and he finds himself escorted, stumbling, through a doorway. His legs buckle, there is a chair beneath him and his skull is spinning with divine contradictions and opposing forces of all things precious or obscene and Gordon's palm is on his back, leaning him forward.

"Head between your knees," Jim says, the commissioner says, gruffly, and Harvey listens because he can’t not listen, he has no choice, he’s gasping and shaking violently oh god god of chance god of nothing god of the world…

Harvey heaves and can’t even make himself sick.

"What’s going on?" asks Gordon, "Harvey."

He can’t answer for some time, wonders if they’re still watching him, can’t hear murmurs for white noise between his ears.

Eventually, he says “S-sorry. Sorry. I think…I should talk. Talk to him.”

Along his spine, Gordon’s hand clenches.

"Are you going to be able to do this?"

Harvey nods, doesn’t sit up. “Y-yeah. Yeah. I should just…talk to him.”

There is a sigh.

"I’m sending you home. For now. As far as he’s concerned, I’ll see what I can do."


	8. Chapter 8

He sits alone in the dark. The blinds are up. The window is open. The door is unlocked. Light from neighboring buildings drifts in. He can hear traffic rushing by on the streets below. He can’t keep still. His leg bounces incessantly. In his hand he holds a pen.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Sometimes he weaves it through his fingers. Sometimes he clenches it in his fist, tries to resist the habit. It could have been worse. It could have been worse.

Click.

Click.

“ **Harvey.** ”

The pen falls to the floor in an instant, as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. In a way he feels like he has.

In a blackened corner of the room, Batman watches. His expression is impassive, unblinking, missing nothing.

Harvey stands in a rush, opens his mouth and finds his mind blank. He collects himself, tries again.

"Thank you for coming."

Batman steps forward. His cape drags over his shoulders like a funeral shroud. He used to resent the man, armor and insignia standing for something he could not access. Judgment, power, protection from and for those who least deserve it.

“ **Why did you call me?** ”

Harvey’s hand twitches. He glances at the pen, then forces his eyes back up.

It could have been worse.

Harvey breathes.

"I think I’m slipping."

Batman waits. Listens.

So he continues. “Before, I used to do things to see what I was capable of giving up. Coin flips. I’d…it was me trying to prove that Harvey Dent didn’t matter. That the things I loved or hated were irrelevant.” Harvey hesitates, brings his arms across his chest. “I couldn’t say no.”

“ **You can always say no.** ”

He presses his lips together tightly, turns away. “It’s not that easy. I wish it was. I’m…”

“ **What did you do, Harvey?** " asks the Dark Knight.

"Nothing yet," he confesses, "nothing. But I have to know. I need to make sure I’m not still capable of killing someone."

“ **We are all capable. It’s your choice.** ”

Before he knows it his fists are clenched at his side. He feels as if something is writhing in the pit of his stomach, constricting around his chest. “And what if I can’t choose Batman? I’m sick. Was sick. I don’t know what I am anymore. But I, I can’t live my life wondering if I flip _this one time_ will it make me…will I be able to…”

He falls silent. Eventually, voice strained, he says, “I can’t go back again. I can’t _do it_ again.”

Batman reaches forward. In his palm rests liberty's silver visage.

Harvey stops breathing, feels the blood drain from his face.

" **It isn’t yours,** " says Batman evenly, analyzing his reaction, " **but it should be enough for this.** ”

"Why," Harvey chokes, unable to move, unable to tear his eyes away, "why would you…"

The coin is pressed into his hand. His fingers close around it.

Batman meets his gaze. “ **Heads I live. Tails I die.** ”


	9. Chapter 9

He feels lightheaded, off-balance, as if his insides have been scooped out to leave him empty.

"No," he says numbly. They are both intimately familiar with this pattern, the deathtraps and their symbols and the collateral damage they always cause. Blades, fire, bullets. Gambling money and mortality time after time turning the world into one twisted joke, when it was clear there was no way out and the only path left led deeper into the illness that gripped them all. That was what it meant to be a rogue. That was what it meant to fight Batman. Despair in theatrics, glory in surrender.

A gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “ **It’s safer this way,** " says the Dark Knight, and his tone is not unkind. " **Trust me.** ”

"Please," whispers Harvey, begs Harvey, " _please…_ ”

Batman doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. Eventually his shoulders drop. Eventually, he has to nod.

The hand falls. Batman retreats several steps until he stands at the opposite end of the room. He waits.

Harvey stares at the coin for longer than he should. His fingers assemble to their familiar position, then spring.

Up.

Down.

"Heads," he says, voice quavering somewhere between terror and relief, "heads…"

“ **Again,** ” answers Batman simply.

Harvey's head jerks up. Unconsciously, he clutches the coin to his chest. “Don’t make me _do_ this. Please, please don’t—”

“ **I can’t make you do anything. Again.** ”

He laughs, loudly, and there is a hysterical tinge to it he doesn’t like. It feels as if something hideous is crawling up his throat. His hands are so unsteady he almost can’t complete the toss.

Heads.

Still giggling, he covers his mouth, struggles to force himself silent. Batman waits, unmoved. His vision blurs. He blinks.

Again.

Again.

"T-Tails," he titters, collapsing into a chair, "You die." His fingers assume the shape of a gun now, and he mimes a single shot before covering his eyes with his palm.

The only sound is his strangled breathing. His face is hot and wet.

“ **Are you going to kill me, Harvey?** " asks Batman quietly. He does not approach.

"F-Fuck you," Harvey responds, "get out of my f-f-fucking house."

When he finally looks up again, he’s alone.


	10. Chapter 10

The first time isn’t hard. It’s Jervis, and this Alice is barely seventeen, and nobody really likes the Hatter anyway so it might not even count as a betrayal at all. Gordon won’t let him be present for the arrest but Harvey knows what this hideout looks like, knows what they can expect to find there. Abandoned ferris wheels and popcorn stands, tilt-a-whirls and shattered teacups. The hall of mirrors Carroll’s looking glass on repeat with distortions that served less to make him feel normal and more to turn the world ugly. “We’re all mad here,” the saying went.

Jervis has a habit of forgetting his friends are only human in the same way he forgets they aren’t really his friends. Corpses litter the scene along with tea, biscuits, and all manner of bodily waste. People can’t survive on ideas and snack cakes alone. Gotham General receives an influx of new patients, and casualties are lower than they might have been. The Gotham Times calls it a stroke of good fortune and Harvey pours himself a drink.

Afterward, he visits the Mad Hatter in Arkham—more for closure than nostalgia. Tetch seems surprised to find Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum come calling, but fails to register any further change. This new reality remains beyond him, Two-Face’s double-cross a tale he fails to recognize even when told outright. Jervis sees what he wants to see and will accept no alternative.

The second time is uncomfortable.

Freeze is predictable, and has long been considered predictable. He does not invest himself in the affairs of his colleagues, regards them with cold disgust. After all, he's the kind of murderer whose only desire is keep everything he loves with him forever, even if it destroys them in the process.

So Harvey isn’t surprised that Freeze doesn’t like him, and never has been really. There’s not a lot in common between them.

Those who offended Freeze didn’t thaw, they shattered. The only survivor he’s seen personally managed to snap his own fingers off. It wasn’t difficult, and it took several minutes before he even started to bleed.

The current hideout is a meat locker repurposed for storage and living accommodations. Gordon insists that Harvey stay outside, and they don’t debate the point. He stays by the radio in case directions or advice are needed. They aren’t. It isn’t until he catches the commissioner watching that he realizes he’s been twisting the cord in his hands.

Freeze doesn’t say anything as they walk him out. Just looks once and looks away.

Harvey feels like a hypocrite.

Riddler is long gone. His walls have been stripped bare, the computers are missing, and the only note left in place simply reads “better luck next time.”

No deathtraps. No riddles.

Eddie had been one of the first rogues to bother talking to him when he donned his costume at the beginning. No courtroom resentment, just curiosity. They’d debated philosophy over drinks at the Iceberg Lounge, called each other delusional, then met again a week later.

This isn’t hate. There would be no question if it was hate—or rather, there would be an entirely different set of questions. This isn’t even indignation.

He doesn’t know what it is, and maybe that’s the point.

At home, Harvey lies on the couch in silence for a long time. It occurs to him that the rest of his life looks like this in a best-case scenario.

But the truth is, Batman for all his good intentions forgot or ignored a basic rule governing… that governed him. Might govern.

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

Two-Face operates on one coin toss at a time.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hey Harvey."

The phone is cradled in the crook of his neck. In his grip, the dish goes still. Water hisses around his hands raising steam. He manages not to drop the sponge.

"Gilda?" he breathes, then wonders if he should have.

She doesn’t answer for several moments. Finally, softly, she says “I’m sorry. Do… do you want me to hang up?”

"No," he says, and it’s inevitable as gravity. Blinking, he nudges the faucet off with his wrist. "No, it’s… are you alright?"

She laughs. It sounds strained, like there are a thousand words trying to force their way through her mouth. “Yeah,” she says, “I’m… I’m doing okay. I think I’ve made a mistake. I don’t know.”

He hesitates.

"Is there anything I can…" He begins, is unable to finish before the murmur dies in his throat. What he has the right to offer, what she won’t regret accepting later, what they mean to each other now when she hasn’t turned to him for anything in years and he can’t blame her or anyone at all except himself… he finds himself full of voiceless questions. Like a coward he takes refuge in ambiguities.

There is very little red left on the horizon, the sky dusky blue and darkening . Streetlights seem brighter and the sidewalks are empty.

Gilda laughs again, no happier than before. “Oh god, Harvey… you’re horrible.” He can’t find language to respond, finds himself listening to her hasty correction. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’ve… I’m sorry. I’m just having trouble.” A beat. “I might be turning into someone ugly.”

And this time it’s his turn to laugh. Something loosens. He can’t decide if it hurts or not. “You haven’t shot anyone, have you?”

She chuckles briefly, sniffs. “Not yet,” Gilda replies. Harvey shuts his eyes, smiles weakly. “There are a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. Can… do you want to try this again?”

"What?"

"I’d… there are probably things we should talk about. If you want."

His mind goes blank, and once again he finds himself grasping for words, fumbling. “If you…” he begins, then stops himself.

Even now, he finds himself shying away from choices.

And he does owe her an answer.

"Yeah," says Harvey, "I think you’re right."


	12. Chapter 12

She sits next to him this time. The tips of his sleeves are still damp. He’d rolled them up before, then tried to pull them back down. That was worse. He could have taken the whole thing off but the sweatshirt is irrationally reassuring. White, blank, boring, not much shape. So sleeves up it is. His jeans and sneakers have seen some use. Harvey tells himself he looks almost like a regular person this way. Hopefully.

Gilda’s in a t-shirt he hasn’t seen before, smoke colored stripes with shorts underneath. It’s not quite hot or cold out, so maybe they’re both a little off with what they’re wearing. Her hair is down tonight, and her eyelashes are very long as she studies her lap.

"You seem better than last time," she says after a while. Her fingers weave together. Their knees don’t quite touch.

"Thanks," he finds himself replying. Then, "I’d like to be."

Gilda nods mutely, lips pressed tight for a moment. She exhales before saying, “I shouldn’t have made it harder.”

Her shoulders are stiff, elbows close to her body. He almost places his palm along her spine, but chooses her hand instead as lightly as he dares. She starts, then relaxes, then turns to face him. She doesn’t move away.

"I kept your name all these years because I wanted to," she says, her voice delicate as glass. "Nothing I could replace it with would have made me happy."

Involuntarily, he thinks of Batman’s silver dollar resting on his nightstand. The pit of his stomach drops, and he averts his eyes as Gilda shifts to take his hand completely.

"But the fact is," she continues, "I’m… I don’t know you anymore. And you don’t know me either. It’s been too long. Things have changed."

"I know," he says. There is something hoarse in the undertone.

It isn’t fair.

"I’m married to a memory," Gilda confesses, almost a murmur. "I don’t know if I can ever really have you back."

"I’m here," he says, numbly, and he doesn’t know who he’s trying to reassure, what he’s trying to prove, "I’m…"

His hand is empty. For an instant he is alone. Then, her fingers are resting on the acid-warped ruin of his face—passing over rough patches and uneven grooves like a shadow. He goes still.

Gilda doesn’t smile, doesn’t cringe, keeps her eyes trained like she’s looking for something. Harvey can’t decide if he wants her to find it or not.

"I wish we could blame Two-Face on Maroni," she says eventually. Her thumb smooths over skin. "Or your dad. But this has always been you."

Part of him would prefer it if she was angry. Tearing him apart with her nails, unifying him into a single mutilated truth on display.

At Arkham, Dr. Adams once said sometimes we have to pull down in order to re-build. But the pieces are all the same. There’s only so much you can do.

"Of course we’re the same people," Harvey breathes, and Gilda’s brows knit in incomplete-understanding. He closes his eye. "I let this happen."

Slowly, Gilda withdraws her hand, rests it at the edge of his knee instead. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. “It would be easy if there was one answer,” she says at last. “but there isn’t.”

He turns to meet her gaze directly. “You never had to come back,” says Harvey quietly. “This has been messy. I don’t want to drag you into anything.”

Gilda leans forward, presses her lips to the scar of his left cheek. She doesn’t linger.

"I’ll take my chances."


End file.
